


Break

by jane_potter



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Control Issues, Depressed Dean, Dominance, Dubious Consent, Episode: s04e16 On the Head of a Pin, Hand Jobs, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Omorashi, Submission, Un-Negotiated Kink, Watersports
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-13
Updated: 2012-02-13
Packaged: 2017-10-31 03:17:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/339283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jane_potter/pseuds/jane_potter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Dean finds out that he's the one responsible for breaking the first seal, depression and apathy set in. Unwilling to let Dean surrender entirely, Castiel takes control from him in order to show Dean how much he is capable of enduring.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Break

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Porn Battle XIII. Takes place immediately post "On the Head of a Pin," but also in some vague alternate universe where Dean and Cas have been tentatively sleeping together for a while.
> 
> To set the scene: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OwioX2miW2k
> 
> Also note: seriously un-negotiated D/s. Do not ever approach your partner with a kink in this way, especially not a kink about controlling somebody else/denying them control of themselves. Heaven is a bad role-model for Castiel when it comes to giving orders.

Sam’s gone to the library. Or at least Sam _said_ he’s gone to the library, and Dean wants to believe that 'library' isn’t a synonym for 'Ruby,' even though he kind of doesn’t believe that at all, but—he’s just too fucking _tired_ to ask, to care, and he kind of doesn’t think he could handle it if Sam’s going to Ruby after all. He'd just grunted, "Whatever," and hadn't moved from where he was lying on his back on the bed, fully dressed, staring at the ceiling of the motel room.  
  
Sam had lingered awkwardly at the door for a few moments, obviously expecting something more, but Dean had ignored him and Sam had left after a couple more seconds. He hadn't shut the door quite fast enough to keep Dean from hearing him sigh loudly.  
  
So Sam’s gone to the library and Dean has started drinking.  
  
Forty minutes and five beers later, Dean isn’t nearly buzzed enough, but his bladder’s finally so fit to burst that he’s got no choice but to drag his ass up from the bed. It’s hard, getting up—not because he’s drunk (and fuck Sam for throwing out that bottle of Jack; Dean knows there'd been a brand new one) but because these days it was just... he just... sometimes he just wants to lie down and shut his eyes and never move again, just stop breathing and stop hurting and stop existing or something.  
  
God, he’s fucking pathetic.  
  
His bones ache as he heaves himself up and shambles toward the bathroom. His bladder makes itself known again with a sharp twinge just this side of painful. Dean mutters a half-hearted curse and reaches for his belt buckle, undoing it with a jangle as he nudges the bathroom door open.  
  
Drink. Piss. Sleep. That’s all he does these days—about all he can _handle_ doing, honestly. The world is ending and it’s Dean’s fucking fault and some days he can barely make the effort to keep himself from lying around in his own filth.  
  
One foot on the cold tile of the bathroom, Dean freezes as it hits him all over again, just like he’s still lying in that hospital bed with Alistair’s screams still ringing in his head—it’s _his fucking fault_. Because he gave in, because he broke like some worthless piece of crap, after thirty measly years. Because he couldn’t suck it up and deal.  
  
His belt buckle jangles faintly in his shaking hand, which is locked nervelessly around the leather strap.  
  
( _straps and chains and hooks and nails, different ways of holding a body down and tying it up and dragging it apart_ )  
  
Because he’s a useless pussy who couldn’t handle thirty fucking years, and now--  
  
Unable to move, unable to _breathe_ , Dean just stands there staring blankly at nothing, and in that moment it takes everything he’s got not to scream. There’s pressure behind his eyes and in his throat, and he can’t, he can’t let it out or he doesn’t know what’ll happen but he’ll never be able to stop.  
  
He—he’s—  
  
A rush of warm air and ozone hits Dean at the same instant he hears the flap of wings from behind him. He jerks around abruptly, all his joints rusted up, his eyes hot and swollen and his throat thick with nothing.  
  
Sure enough, Castiel is standing there, looking straight at him from two feet away. Dean suddenly feels horribly exposed, barefoot and shaking and roughed up from not sleeping, like the light of day is going to expose all his infirmities so that Castiel actually _sees_ them and finally realises what a fucking useless wreck Dean is and gives up on him like any sane person would.  
  
He sniffs hard and squints at Castiel, trying to act like he hadn’t been ten seconds from breaking down like a baby. “Cas,” he croaks, his voice shot to hell.  
  
Castiel’s eyes bore into him. “Dean.”  
  
And Dean just— _can’t_.  
  
“Dude, whatever it is, no,” he rasps, turning away so that he doesn’t have to look at the angel. Shame strangles in his throat. “I’m not your man.”  
  
“Dean—”  
  
“I told you I can’t!” Dean bursts out, and Jesus fuck, he’s starting to cry, fucking pathetic, Winchester—but there’s nowhere to go in the tiny bathroom and the angel is standing in the doorway, so Dean stands there trapped in front of the toilet with his shoulders hunched, his whole body tight and shaking. “I told you to find somebody else. I can’t do whatever it is you need. I can’t.”  
  
“Dean, I don’t…”  
  
“Cas, don’t,” is all he gets out, utterly wrecked. Stupid, _stupid_ , but he can’t do anything else except beg and hope that Castiel treats him with mercy he doesn’t deserve. “Please don’t ask me. Please.”  
  
It sounds like Cas is in anguish when he says, “Dean, I regret that we asked to you torture Alistair. I would give anything to change what happened.”  
  
That’s right, Dean, make the _angel_ feel like shit. It feels like something is choking him, a noose around his neck.  
  
“You should’ve just let him kill me,” is what comes out of his mouth, the fractured, self-loathing thing that’s been floating at the edges of his thoughts all week.  
  
The next thing he knows, he’s been shoved up against the sink with one arm twisted behind his back, pain shooting through his face as his broken nose pushes against the mirror. Dean yells at the cold porcelain edge digging _hard_ into his swollen bladder, the force of it so sharp that he nearly loses control for a sick second. Castiel’s body is warm and close behind him.  
  
“You must _not_ think that,” Castiel grinds out, his voice terrible and cold. There’s no trace of gentleness in him now, just ruthless force. This is the angel that threatened to throw Dean back into Hell.  
  
An icy shudder runs down Dean’s spine. Through a clogged throat and a chest full of the self-pity that he’s wallowing pathetically in, all he manages is, “Cas, I’m not your man. You’d think I could manage the one thing I was good for, but I couldn’t even get Alistair to talk.” He swallows thickly. “Dude, just go. Stop wasting your time on me.”  
  
Because if Castiel’s going to leave—and he _is_ going to leave—then Dean just wants him gone as fast as possible. No need to drag it out. And hey, maybe Cas will go before he sees Dean break down completely and start bawling like a wuss, which is really all Dean can ask for right now.  
  
Dean shuts his eyes hard and tries not to scream when Castiel lets go of his wrist.  
  
But suddenly the angel’s hands are pulling at his jeans, determinedly undoing the button and zip. It takes Dean a few seconds to realise that Castiel _hasn’t disappeared_.  
  
Dean groggily tries to push him away. “Cas, not _now_.”  
  
He gives a shocked cry when Castiel shoves him up against the sink again, shouting at the burst of pain and urgency from his bladder that nearly makes his knees give way.  
  
“Jesus _Christ_ ,” Dean grates out, clinging to the edge of the counter and trying desperately not to piss himself. The wave of urgency crests and passes with agonizing slowness, until finally he’s sure he’s got control again. It leaves him light-headed and trembling. “Don’t—”  
  
Castiel’s hand closes on the back of his neck, pushing Dean’s face against the mirror again.  
  
“It seems to me,” Castiel says, “that if you don’t want to live, you don’t get a choice in what I do to you.”  
  
The angel punctuates this by yanking Dean’s jeans down his hips. Dean squeezes his eyes shut and doesn’t move.  
  
His voice ragged and low, Castiel leans forward and speaks directly into Dean’s ear. “You forget, Dean, that I was the one who brought you back to life. I paid for your breath in struggle and agony. _I_ care whether you live or die.”  
  
Dean can’t speak through the pressure in his throat. He just shudders against Castiel, twitching weakly in his grip.  
  
Castiel cups him through his underwear, weighing and massaging the bulge of Dean’s soft dick. His hand is so very gentle in contrast to the iron grip on the nape of Dean’s neck. He rolls Dean’s balls in his palm, strokes his flaccid cock with infinite tenderness. Shivers race down Dean’s skin at the grazing pressure against his swollen bladder. A whine builds in his throat.  
  
“Cas, I gotta pee,” he chokes out, humiliated beyond belief.  
  
Castiel hooks his fingers in the elastic of Dean’ underwear and slips a hand inside, curling confidently around his cock.  
  
“You can wait.”  
  
“I can’t get it up like this,” Dean protests, trying to drag some measure of authority into his voice. “I gotta take a piss.”  
  
“You misunderstand me,” Castiel says, his voice perfectly measured. He strokes Dean’s soft cock with long, smooth motions, each touch sending shivers through Dean’s oversensitized body. “That was an order, Dean. You will wait.”  
  
For a moment, Dean’s brain stalls. He doesn’t know what to do with this. Even though he never forgot about breathing in Hell, somehow he never had to piss or shit. He’s never dealt with this kind of torment.  
  
“You can handle this,” Castiel tells him, and Jesus Christ, Dean’s getting hard in his hand, his cock starting to fill at the firm pleasure of Castiel’s insistent touch despite the pressure from his bladder. One of Castiel’s knees pushes between Dean’s thighs, pinning him against the sink counter.  
  
Face still pressed against the mirror glass, Dean grits his teeth and swallows down a pained noise. He doesn’t know what’s worse, the fact that his eyes are still hot and prickling with tears only ten seconds away, or the idea of pissing all over an angel’s hand.  
  
“No,” he croaks, but he’s not strong enough to do anything else. He should yell, should fight back, should punch the son of a bitch in the nose, but instead he begs. “Cas…”  
  
At that, Castiel pauses, his hand wrapped firmly around Dean’s half-hard cock, thumb resting on top of the sensitive slit. Dean’s uneven breathing is loud in the silence of the bathroom. Gently, Castiel shifts his grip on the back of Dean’s neck and then pulls him away from the mirror, forcing him to stand upright. A twinge of need shoots through his bladder, making Dean grimace.  
  
“Dean,” says Castiel into Dean’s ear, his voice low and close, full of that grave intimacy that always makes Dean feel like the world has shrunk down to just him. His breath is hot on the side of Dean’s neck, his body very warm and solid behind Dean’s. “Open your eyes.”  
  
Despite himself, Dean does. He has to blink away the film of tears that gathered beneath his closed lids. Unwillingly, he looks at the mirror in front of him, still fogged with the smear of his breath.  
  
He’s standing there with his pants around his knees and his cock in Castiel’s hand, his belly visibly swollen from the amount of piss in his full-to-bursting bladder. Just the sight of it makes Dean’s sphincter try to liquefy again, so he jerks his eyes up. His face is haggard, scab dark on the bridge of his nose, eyes red-rimmed with deep bags underneath them. Castiel is looking back at him over his reflection’s shoulder.  
  
“You _can_ do this, Dean,” Castiel tells him, beginning to move his hand very slowly up and down Dean’s cock once more. His stare pins Dean’s eyes, forcing him to keep looking, to watch as his wilted dick starts to harden again in Castiel’s fist. The uncomfortable mix of pleasure and urgency makes Dean squirm in place. Shame burns across the back of his neck, hot as fire.  
  
“Do you want me to stop?” Castiel asks matter of factly. His hand slows on Dean’s cock.  
  
Dean wants to laugh, but he can’t quite get the sound out. He drags his eyes away from Castiel’s, tracking across the wall and the floor, anywhere, anything not to watch any longer. “Don’t make me say it,” he begs, barely a rasp. Because if Castiel made him admit it, he would have to say _N_ _o, don't stop, please, I want you to make me_ , and he—he can't.  
  
Out of the corner of his eye, Dean sees Castiel in the mirror tip his head slightly to the side. The angel’s eyes squint slightly, bright blue in the fluorescence of the naked bulb above the mirror, trying to pierce right through into Dean’s soul.  
  
“I am not Alistair, Dean, and I am not here to punish you. I will stop if you don’t want this.”  
  
But Dean will be damned if he can say no to Castiel one more time. He hasn’t got the strength for it. In reply, he gulps a wet breath and leans forward out of Castiel’s grip, bowing his head and dropping his forehead against the mirror. He lets go.  
  
“You are doing a good job,” the angel quietly says—fuck, _praises_ —and Dean almost screams. But it washes over him like a foamy ocean wave, filling the gnawing pit in his chest with warmth despite everything, and for that handful of seconds, Dean desperately wants to believe Castiel is telling the truth.  
  
As if he’s soothing a scared animal, Castiel runs his free hand down Dean’s side, stroking over muscle that’s trembling with tension. His fist speeds up again, making long steady pulls that send pleasure burning through Dean’s body. Against the screaming urgency of every cell in Dean’s brain, his cock starts to fill again, blood-hot and swollen in Castiel’s palm.  
  
A hot icepick stabs through Dean’s bladder, sudden and sharp enough to make him yell hoarsely, but Castiel strokes him with quick, hard motions, forcing Dean’s cock to stay hard through the crest of watery need, even when Dean thinks he’s just about to lose it and piss all over the place. Spitting and swearing, Dean all but collapses against the mirror, his legs trembling almost too hard to stand on. He automatically tries to press his legs together but finds Castiel’s knee still wedged between them, holding him up against the sink counter.  
  
“Cas,” he gasps, hips jerking helplessly. “I need…”  
  
He needs _help_ , but he can’t force the words out. He’s starting to come apart, torn to pieces by the constant war of sensations trying to drag him in opposite directions, needing to get soft enough to piss but forced to stay hard by the swift, relentless jerk of Castiel’s fist. He needs help and he doesn’t know what the hell he’s talking about, whether he means help in this instant, trapped against the sink and shaking too hard to stand straight, or help with the Apocalypse, with Lucifer, with the whole goddamned mess that feels like it’s about to suck him down and swallow him whole.  
  
Somehow, Castiel knows exactly what he needs to hear. “You can do this, Dean,” he says, each word dropping like a solid certainty. It doesn’t sound like encouragement. It sounds like fact, like Castiel somehow honestly _believes_ in him.  
  
“I can’t,” Dean chokes, his voice wavering all over the place.  
  
“You can.”  
  
The pressure from his bladder is almost unbearable. Dean nearly screams in frustration when he feels himself starting to soften again, undoing all the work Castiel just did. Unable to help himself, he’s squirming and twisting against Castiel’s grip, not even sure if he’s trying to get more or get away, but the angel holds him in place, his body an immovable weight behind Dean.  
  
Dean opens his mouth to gasp and moan, not even sure if it’s desperation or utter fucking relief. If he can’t move, then he can’t get away—can’t do anything at all except maybe howl as Castiel forces him through his own weakness and over the peak, past the limits of anything Dean could do on his own. As long as Castiel is here, he _can’t fail_.  
  
“You will get through this,” Castiel murmurs, over the guttural noises of need and agony that are tearing out of Dean’s throat. “You are strong enough for this, Dean. I _know_ that you have the strength.”  
  
Dean’s cock pulses and leaps in Castiel’s hand. Pre-cum bubbles out of the tip, slicking the stroke and making a wet slapping sound as Castiel jerks him faster. Dean could almost swear he hears Castiel breathing faster too, but he can’t hear anything over the sound of his own harsh panting. His heartbeat thunders in his ears like he’s been running for miles.  
  
When he opens his eyes for a moment, Dean finds that he can’t make them focus, and the countertop blurs and careens beneath him until a particularly hard jolt from his bladder makes him shout and convulse against Castiel. His eyes roll up as his whole body tightens, the urge to piss almost overwhelming him.  
  
Shaking violently, Dean somehow rides through it, spurred on by the constant gravelly rumble of Castiel’s voice in his ear saying things that he can’t quite make out.  
  
He hears himself making noise, visceral and broken, halfway crying against the mirror as his balls start to draw up, the building sensation so intense that it’s close to agony. Dean’s not sure what feels good and what doesn’t, can’t tell the difference anymore. He just _feels_ , all coherent thought burned out of him, nothing but raw straining need and emotion and struggle all contained by Castiel’s massive, inexorable strength, strength enough to make sure that Dean never falls apart even if he shatters into pieces.  
  
Caught on the edge of blacking out, Dean holds on by his fingernails, trapped by the nebulous terror that’s wrapped around his throat, choking tight, holding him back. He just barely manages to summon up the strength to string a handful of broken syllables together. “C-can— i-is it—can I—”  
  
Castiel understands immediately, plucking this last responsibility out of Dean’s hands and taking control of him entirely. “Yes, Dean,” he says, his mouth warm and close to Dean’s ear, his chin tucked tightly in the notch of Dean’s shoulder. His body is all heat and iron strength, moulded against Dean’s shaking form to hold him up, and they’re so close that it feels like they’re about to merge together and never come apart. “You can let go. You’re done.”  
  
Dean is screaming as he comes, shaking with the force of his release—not just from his body, but from _everything_. Long hot spurts of come jet across the counter and into the sink basin, stripe after stripe of it, slicking Castiel’s fingers as he continues to fist Dean through orgasm.  
  
There is literally nothing but Castiel holding Dean up as he comes, the angel’s free arm wrapped around his chest to keep him from collapsing, and Dean can just _let_ it happen, let it break him and pull him apart and turn him into a useless sobbing wreck because Castiel is there to hold him up.  
  
Dean doesn’t remember crying, but there are tears on his face when he surfaces, heaving and blowing like a winded animal. His legs don’t want to support his weight, so he keeps leaning on Castiel, grateful and weakly astounded when Castiel just _stays there_ , holding him tight and safe. Dean can almost believe that Castiel is going to be there forever.  
  
“Cas,” he hears himself whisper, nothing but a rasp, “I need… I gotta…”  
  
But he’s already going, cock softening so rapidly that it hurts, a frisson of powerful shivers through his overstimulated nerves making him shudder uncontrollably as his distended bladder lets go. The relief of it is so pure and complete that it _hurts_ , a white-edged flame searing through his brain.  
  
Listening to the sound of his piss hitting the sink basin, Dean wants to choke on his shame, but Castiel just holds his cock and aims for him, breathing steadily behind Dean and holding him as as securely as ever. When Dean dares to look in the mirror again, he sees Castiel looking down over his shoulder to regard his pissing cock with a serene expression, no trace of disgust or contempt on his face.  
  
“You did well, Dean,” Castiel says at last, when Dean’s piss has slowed to a trickle and there’s no sound in the bathroom but their breathing, Castiel’s slow and even, Dean’s rapid and still unsteady. The hand he has wrapped around Dean’s bicep tightens momentarily, a reassuring squeeze. “You did very well.”  
  
“I didn’t do anything,” Dean mutters, through a tight throat. There’s no way to avoid it, much as he'd like to pretend that he's any good at withstanding torment. “You made me. Couldn’t have done it on my own.”  
  
Some magnetic force draws Dean’s eyes upward, to meet Castiel’s stare in the mirror once again. What he sees on Castiel’s face sends a flood of warmth through him, a deep and grounding force that sinks into his core and fills him up, makes him feel like he’s a _person_ again for the first time since he woke up in a coffin six feet under, dust in his lungs and the remnants of Hell floating like splintered ribs just beneath the surface. He looks at Castiel and Castiel looks _into_ him, and there _must_ be something worthy left inside Dean after all, because Castiel is looking at whatever it is that he sees as if it’s the only thing in the world worth having and he almost can’t believe it’s all his.  
  
“Then it is fortunate that I’m not going anywhere,” says Castiel. “I may not know very much of what’s going on, but I will be here for you as it happens, Dean.”  
  
“Because it’s your job,” Dean accuses bitterly, biting back at the only hand that's feeding him because he's been kicked for too long _not_ to. Things like this don't just _happen_. Angels don't just drop out of the sky and stay forever.  
  
But Castiel says, “Because you need me,” his expression so fierce that Dean can’t dismiss it. “And because I’m going to show you how strong you really are.”  
  
Dean's mouth twitches. It's not a smile, not even close to it. Something roils in the knotted-up mess of his chest.  
  
He doesn't believe, and he can't believe, and he wants so _badly_ to believe.  
  
"You promise?" he asks, unable to care just then how vulnerable he sounds. He needs to hear Castiel tell him, even if it's going to turn out to be a lie eventually.  
  
Castiel doesn't smile, but his quiet expression practically exudes his approval as he grips Dean's bicep more tightly, warm and strong, powerful as a chain. "I promise."


End file.
